Riddles
by jamesf141
Summary: "Harry Potter, the Boy Who Left." Ginny Weasley is angry with Harry Potter. He's going on a potentially deadly mission to defeat the darkest Dark Lord wizarding Britain has ever known and he won't even take her with him! Thankfully, the new, young and attractive headmaster knows how Ginny feels - and the two of them don't take well to being left behind. GxOC, some HxHr. AU from DH.
1. Worst Wedding Ever

Disclaimer

As much as I wish I owned Harry Potter, I don't. Any original characters in this fic are entirely mine - otherwise, everything belongs to JK and WB. And now...

**Author's Note:**

I'm not in a habit of having author's notes at the start of chapters, but I felt it would be important to quickly say that this chapter begins the day before Bill and Fleur's wedding. There's some HxG in this chapter; I apologise, but the canon is necessary. All will be explained later...

* * *

The Burrow had never been known for its quietness. In fact, the patchwork, quirky home was, as a general rule, the resting place of the most volatile chaos the wizarding world could conjure. The twins' endless experiments, Ginny's teenage moodiness and Molly's tendency for yelling made the humble abode a loud, disorientating place to live – the sheer number of people living there didn't help in the slightest. It was, in short, a noisy home.

Even by the Burrow's standards, _this _was different.

The screams of one Ginny Weasley filled the atmosphere of the house, reverberating off all of the walls and drowning out every other sound in the vicinity. Ron could've sworn the muggles of Ottery St Catchpole had heard his younger sister's enraged yelling and would have happily chuckled about it with Fred and George. That is, he _would_, if she weren't standing so near to him and - he shivered at the thought in sympathy - if she weren't yelling at his best friend.

Harry Potter, the Chosen One, the Boy Who Lived - or, as Ginny so eloquently put it, the Boy Who Left - placed a placating arm on the girl's shoulder and calmly addressed her, interrupting her as she stopped for breath. Ron had been so used to her yelling that he could barely hear Harry's words and it took some time for his ears to adjust.

"... and it's not as if I'm going forever," he heard Harry say, as his hearing returned to its usual capacity. "I'll be back, safe and soun-"

"DON'T YOU _DARE_ SAY YOU'LL BE SAFE WHEN YOU KNOW BLOODY WELL YOU CAN'T GUARANTEE THAT..."

Damn. He'd been so sure Harry had got her to calm down.

Ron cringed as his humble home was filled once again with the sound of Ginny's screams of defiance and rage - and upset.

* * *

Harry was shaking as he packed his bag that night and - though it surprised him even now - it wasn't the thought of fighting Voldemort that made him tremble. No, it was Ginny. Her words still echoed in his mind, telling him how dangerous and stupid this was, how he was going to die and never see her again. How he could never beat Voldemort without that last year of training.

He clamped his teeth together and, blinking away tears of anger before they could come, shoved his shirts angrily into the bag. He knew he shouldn't be angry at Ginny, but... _damn it_! She'd gone and brought up all the things he hadn't wanted to think about, every last one of his nagging insecurities. He forced himself to sit down on the bed, his muscles stiff with stress and anger. He took a few deep breaths in through clenched teeth and slowly, every so slowly, relaxed, until he was breathing calmly through his open mouth. His breath was still a bit shaky, but it was merely the aftermath of the emotion that left him so. He nodded slightly to himself to firm his resolve and stood again, turning to pack the small pile of boxers in his bag.

There was a knock at the door.

"Yes?" He asked, hoarsely, his throat dry.

"It's me," came the reply. Ginny. She sounded like she'd been crying.

The small edge of pain in her voice, those little stutters and heavier breathing - he heard them and every small ounce of fear and bitter, bitter hate vanished from his body. He was suddenly overcome with a desire to go and hold her close, to comfort her and care for her and make everything alright. He called out.

"Come in."

The door opened, creaking slightly. He looked up to see Ginny standing in the door frame, biting her lip, trails of tears still visible on her cheeks. He walked over to her as she closed the door behind her gently. She simply fell into his arms - there was no other way to describe it - as her tears started flowing again.

"Hey," he said gently, trying not to be awkward. A small part of his mind was filled with warning bells, remembering Cho and how bad he was with crying girls. He ignored the thoughts. "What's the matter?" He asked just as gently, tilting her face up lightly to look her in the eyes. He wiped at her tears with the back of his hand, while his other arm pulled her into a close hug. She sniffed before replying, her voice cracking as she was shaken by the involuntary spasms of crying.

"I- didn't me-mean what I said ear-earlier," she stammered, pulling herself closer into his chest and looking down. "I ju-just..."

She trailed off, resigning herself to the tears and sobbing into his jumper. He leaned down and kissed the top of her head softly, her hair tickling his nose and lips. She sniffed in response. It was some time before her crying had subsided enough for her to talk again but, when it had, she looked up.

"Harry?" she asked, her voice hoarse.

"Yes?" He replied? His face was only a few inches from hers and he felt more and more uncertain as to what he should do. Ginny looked thoughtful for a moment, before swallowing.

"Why do you have to go?"

It was the question he had least wanted to be asked, simply because he felt that it was the one Ginny deserved the answer to. To the others, he could lie, saying that Dumbledore had left him key information, always avoiding the prophecy...

He pulled Ginny over to the bed and sat her down, before he explained. He didn't tell her everything - she didn't need to know about the horcruxes - but he told her as much as she could know. The prophecy, why his parents had died, why Voldemort wanted him dead... he was expecting her to look shocked by the end of it all. He was expecting her to leave, to stay away from such a dangerous person. But she didn't. She looked him in the eye and smiled sadly.

"I guess we all knew it would be something like this," she said. She swallowed and closed her eyes for a moment, as if taking it all in. Then she released the breath she had been holding all that time and looked back at Harry. "I know I can't come with you," she said, anticipating his reaction, "but promise me that if you_ ever_ need my help, you'll call."

Harry frowned. How was he meant to call her? It wasn't as if he'd have access to the Floo Network wherever he went...

Ginny noticed the look on his face and grinned, chuckling slightly. She shook her head a little.

"Patronuses can be used to send messages, Harry. Hermione showed me yesterday, so we could stay in touch. Get her to show you and we can keep in contact that way."

* * *

Ronald Weasley was a fairly typical teenage boy. He liked sport. He liked food. He liked lazing around. And he was also very, very distracted around attractive girls.

For the last year, Ron had become increasingly aware of just how attractive he found Hermione. She had grown from a mousy-haired, bucktoothed bookworm into a stunningly beautiful young woman. Ron had to admit it - she was incredible to look at.

He could hardly help but notice these things when she was talking to him, face to face, like they were now. He had to try very hard to resist the quick glances down that the small voice in the back of his head kept encouraging. He understood the need for the proximity - they were discussing Horcruxes, after all, and needed to do everything they could to prevent the others from hearing them. Even with muffliato, they weren't taking any chances, standing close and whispering in hushed voices.

"What do you suggest we carry our stuff in?" Ron asked. He'd been worried that they would not be able to carry all the provisions they needed, like food, medicine and clothes. In fact, it was his largest worry of all

"Here," Hermione replied, reaching for a string around her neck and pulling up a small bag on a pendant that was hanging round her neck. She didn't hold it up particularly high, forcing Ron's eyes to glance downwards. He flicked his eyes back up to meet hers, trying not to think about (as much as he hated to brag, he couldn't help but admit it) the incredible view his height gave him from that angle.

"It's a bag," he said, before realising quite how stupid he sounded. She sighed.

"Look again, Ron," she whispered impatiently. He looked down again and quickly noticed that the bag seemed much larger on the inside than it first seemed. His first thought was that this was a perfect storage system - his second, that he could probably get away with pretending not to have realised for a few seconds. He let his eyes wander slightly from the small bag's opening, and took in the soft, curved flesh he could see through the rounded neck of her top. Was that the edge of her bra he could see? A hint of bright red fabric, slightly laced edges, curving round the inside hem of her shirt neck... yes, definitely her bra. His eyes took one more customary sweep of her bare skin, once more surprised that his bookworm friend actually had fairly impressively-sized breasts, before flicking back to meet hers again.

"You're incredible, Hermione," he said, a grin spreading across his lips. She frowned slightly, and he thought she might have worked out what he'd been doing. "Enlarging the inside like that? It's genius!" he added, just to be on the safe side. She smiled gently.

"Thanks," she said, and Ron realised it was one of the few times she had ever admitted being grateful for anything he'd said. "I still need to try the spell on a larger bag, so we can fit everything we need into it, but this will do for vitals like medicine..."

She trailed off suddenly as they heard a noise at the door - footsteps. Hermione quickly lifted the muffliato charm and stepped away from Ron, sitting down on the sofa just as the door opened and Molly bustled in, smiling happily even with the pressure of the next day's wedding clearly showing in her eyes. She noticed Ron and Hermione chatting and turned to face them both.

"Merlin, what are you two still doing up?" She asked. "I know you're old enough to go to bed when you like, but your father and I do want to sleep Ronald, and since we're sleeping down here..."

Ron sighed. Hermione stood up, smiling brightly.

"Oh, that's fine Mrs Weasley," she said. "I'll see you in the morning. It's going to be a great wedding! Come on, Ron."

And with that, Hermione pulled him out of the room, dragging him by his arm to leave his mother in peace. She closed the door behind them, and started up the stairs. Ron followed her closely. Eventually, they reached the landing of the room she shared with Ginny and Fleur.

"Well... good night, Ron," she said. "I'll speak to you tomorrow, ok?"

"Night," he replied quietly with a nod of the head. She smiled softly and lingered in the doorframe. Ron raised his eyebrows for a moment, shocked. She looked very... alluring, her body leaning gently against the wooden frame.

"Actually, Ron," she asked, nervously, as his heart began to beat faster, "could I have a word now?"

"Sure?" He replied, confused and slightly dazed. He didn't like where his subconscious imagined this conversation would go... well, he did like it, _a lot_, but he certainly wasn't expecting it in the slightest.

"How much do you think Harry knows about the Horcruxes?"

Ron sighed softly to himself in both relief and in disappointment. The conversation hadn't taken that turn. A small, nagging voice in the back of his head said that he really shouldn't be thinking about this kind of thing when they were about to go out and try to defeat a dark wizard.

"I think he's not telling us some things. I think he knows where some of them are - or at the very least, where they're likely to be."

Ron said all this very slowly. It wasn't as if he didn't trust Harry. It was simply that there was no way Dumbledore would have let them go on this quest without any kind of information whatsoever as to where they should be heading. Hermione nodded and he knew that she understood this too.

"I'm not so certain, but you're right. There are things he hasn't told us before and I'm certain that he would know where Voldemort would put his horcruxes." Ron winced as she said the name and she shot him a scathing look before continuing. "Still, I think he's told us a lot of it."

It was Ron's turn to nod in agreement.

"You're right. It's not like Harry to keep the most important things from us."

"Yes, I suppose," Hermione smiled. She seemed somewhat reassured. "Thanks, Ron. Goodnight."

"Night, 'Mione," he replied, turning back to the stairs as she turned back into the room and the door closed with a quiet thud. He trudged upstairs to the room he and Harry shared, his eyelids heavy as he felt suddenly very tired. He placed his hand on the door handle and turned, pushing the door inwards and fighting hard not to collapse there and then on the floor. Why was he suddenly so tired? It had been a long week, he guessed...

He looked up to see two figures sprawled all over the spare camp bed. Long, red hair flowed down Ginny's back as she lay gently across Harry, his arms holding her close, one around her waist, the other around her shoulders. For a moment, anger filled Ron as he immediately became suspicious. This was replaced by a feeling of betrayal - Harry and his sister, doing _that_, in his room! But after a few seconds, in which he'd angrily stormed over to their bed, he realised that both were both dressed. He sighed in relief, before heading over to his bed and stretching out on the mattress, pulling the blanket around him tight and shutting his eyes. He knew that they probably didn't want him here - or that they wouldn't want him there when they woke up, at any rate - but it was his room. They had no right to force him out of it, and where would he go? The house was so full that even the sitting room was taken and everywhere else was probably filled with sleeping people he wouldn't want to wake. The only person he knew was awake was Hermione, and he couldn't very well go and join her, could he!

His mind began to wander off on a very different train of thought after that. He soon decided that, as much as he'd like to join Hermione, he most certainly couldn't. But the thoughts of it... he wondered what Hermione wore to sleep in. The little voice in the back of his mind questioned whether she wore anything, but an uncomfortable tugging against the material of his boxers warned him off that course of thought. He considered briefly whether she slept in her underwear and the mental images were just as arousing, but he felt less worried about ignoring these. In fact, he let them come, relaxing as he pictured Hermione in the same red material he'd glimpsed just a few minutes earlier, his eyes mentally scanning over her soft, bare skin. He was fairly certain that he could think of nothing more attractive than Hermione in underwear. He let himself imagine it, all the while a small voice in his head screaming that this was wrong, that this was _Hermione_, all the while the rest of his mind yelling back, _so what?_ It wasn't as if being Hermione didn't make her any less attractive... He let his thoughts wander around this imaginary beauty, until the tension in he boxers was not just uncomfortable, but unbearable. He sighed, knowing that there was no way he'd get to sleep with that kind of distraction, and his hand slipped down, further under the blanket, as he rolled over, his back to Harry and Ginny.

He really needed to stop doing this before they started camping.

* * *

Ginny opened her eyes, slowly.

Her face was pressed against fabric, but beneath it was a very solid human chest. Specifically, a slightly underweight and very definitely male human chest. She lifted her head, bleary-eyed, to check that she was lying on the right person.

Yes. It was Harry. She breathed a mental sigh of relief and shifted slightly in his embrace, noticing the pins and needles in her side. She wasn't exactly comfortable, but she was certainly very happy, lying spread across Harry. She could feel his breathing underneath her, his chest rising up and down in time with the soft, gentle sound.

Then she heard a snore. And it didn't come from Harry's direction.

She lifted her head higher, as high as it could go with Harry's arm keeping her shoulder's held close to him - a feeling that she absolutely loved, though she would probably never admit it - and saw her youngest brother, lying on his bed, his back to them. Her initial reaction was anger - anger that he'd seen them lying there together, anger that he'd slept there anyway, anger that he hadn't left them alone. But after a short while, she decided that she probably shouldn't be angry. After all, it was _his_ room that they were in and, technically, it was she who was intruding. Still, she felt a vague twinge of annoyance that her brother had not seen fit to leave them in peace.

She relaxed back down into Harry's embrace, snuggling closer to him than she would dare if he was awake. She suddenly became very much aware of her legs - specifically, her left leg, which had, in her sleep, somehow hooked itself slightly around Harry's own legs as she lay spread-eagled over him. She felt a slight blush colour her cheeks as she realised she quite liked the feeling, although her foot was somewhat uncomfortable, hooked slightly as it was around Harry's thigh. She shifted slightly, hooking her leg just a tiny bit more around Harry's and pulling herself closer into him. Harry reacted, in his sleep, pulling the arm curled around her waist tighter. She smiled for a moment, enjoying the feeling of proximity, before becoming uncomfortable aware of a slight bulge pressing against her midriff. She blushed heavily, before realising that she couldn't exactly manoeuvre out of this position now. She froze, suddenly very tense and not quite sure what to do. Harry, smiling gently to himself, arched his back, before coming to an abrupt halt and opening his eyes in shock. He looked up at Ginny and opened his mouth, as if to say something. Ginny urgently shushed him, gesturing towards Ron's bed in response to his look of confusion. Ron snored with impeccable timing, and Harry nodded in understanding. He pulled away slightly, and the pressure against her midriff was gone.

"Sorry," he whispered. "I hope you weren't uncomfortable."

"No," she replied, slightly breathless. She mentally scolded herself for sounding like an infatuated schoolgirl and decided to try and fix that. She smirked slightly. "How about you?"

She raised an eyebrow as he blushed slightly and moved his waist slightly further from her. She couldn't help pushing further, his discomfort strangely amusing. She leaned down so that their faces were close together, and began to play with the buttons on his shirt.

"I take it you had a good sleep? It certainly felt as if you'd had an interesting dream..."

Harry blushed deeply and she grinned in satisfaction. Boys. So easy to manipulate.

"Gi-ginny..." he began, before she leaned down and kissed him, full on the mouth. His eyes widened in shock, but she was insistent, her lips brushing softly yet intently against his. After a very short amount of time, she pulled away, moving her head to press against his cheek.

"Was it like this?" she whispered softly, eliciting a small, involuntary shudder from Harry as she very deliberately pressed her chest closer to his. "Or was it more like... _this_?"

Using the leg she had already hooked around his, she pulled herself up so that she was sitting - she couldn't bring herself to see it as "straddling," although it very clearly was - on top of him. Her hands once more returned to playing idly with his shirt buttons, a mischievous grin on her face as she realised once again just how much fun toying with teenage boys could be. Harry looked mortified for a second, before reaching up with his own hands and placing one on either side of her face. Holding her still, he leaned up to speak with her.

"Yes," he said, quietly but firmly, "it was more like this. I'd rather not act out my dream with your brother sleeping just over there, though."

Ginny glanced over at her brother, lying on his bed only a short distance away. Harry was right - there was a time and a place for these things, and in your brother's room, on another brother's wedding day was simply not one of them. She tried to hide her disappointment as she untangled her legs from Harry's and got out of bed. She adjusted her top and skirt, noting that Harry was staring quite avidly as she did so, and kissed him lightly on the cheek, whispering a quiet goodbye before sneaking out of the room.

Oh, this was going to be an amazing wedding.

* * *

This was the worst wedding, ever.

There was utter pandemonium as death eaters poured into the tent by the dozen, their distinctive masks causing Ginny to shiver in fear and terror. She didn't have any time to react, as one sent a killing curse flying at her; she dropped to the floor on instinct as the green jet flew over her head, missing her by inches. She rolled under a table, Quidditch training serving her well, and stood up, sending a stunner at the death eater who had tried to kill her. He fell to his knees, unconscious.

She turned to the fleeing crowd, scanning for Harry, but it was so much harder to find him now he was under polyjuice - just another red-haired head in a crowd of dozens. She caught sight of Hermione, with two redheads on her arms - recognising one as Ron and realising, with a jolt, that the other was Harry. She saw Hermione begin to turn on the spot.

"HARRY!" she yelled, fighting through the crowd in their direction. Death eaters turned to face her, looking for clues as to where their enemy was, but the trio had already disapparated without her. She stopped for a moment; her breath caught in her throat. They were gone.

She was conscious of being dragged back by strong arms, and of a sudden sensation like being squeezed through a tube, and then... a sudden calm. She was no longer in the panic of the wedding party, which meant...

She looked up. She was in Aunt Muriel's house, her mother, father and aunt stood in the centre of the room, casting spells frantically. She was surprised to see Muriel acting with such energy and urgency. Looking around, she saw her family, hunched quietly around the room, pale-faced and cold. She turned to face her father, who had just finished casting wards.

"What-"

Arthur shushed her, before casting a patronus and sending it with a message. '_Family safe, do not reply, we are being watched.'_

When she realised the message was for Ron, she knew things had gone very, very wrong.

* * *

The gargoyle that guarded the Headmaster's office at Hogwarts was not used to working in the summer holidays. Usually, Headmasters would go out to their summer retreats during this precious holiday, although Dumbledore had preferred to stay in his office over the break. Either way, the gargoyle was not used to people trying to use the staircase it guarded - certainly not people young enough to be students.

The stone figure gazed at the young man uncertainly.

"What're you doin' 'ere?" It asked. Succinct and to the point. How very gryffindor.

"I'm here to see my office?" the young man replied. He spoke as if it were a question, but something in his smooth, baritone voice told the gargoyle that it was much more of an order.

"Y-your office? 'Ere, what's a kid like you doin' with an _office_..." the gargoyle bravely continued, though his voice seemed uncertain and fearful. The young man made a mental note to enforce some more... slytherin tendencies in his door guard. In fact, he'd start now. He pulled out his wand, and pointed it at the gargoyle, who consequently gulped and froze solid - or relatively solid, bearing in mind this was a guardian of solid stone.

"Would you like me to blast your face off?" the young man questioned, his voice filled with command - and the slightest hint of a German accent beneath the heavily upper-class British tone. "Or can I see my office without fuss? I don't particularly care one way or the other, you see..."

The threateningly soft voice trailed off, leaving the consequences of the gargoyle's answer hanging almost tangibly in mid-air. The gargoyle gulped once more, and slid aside.

"Y-your office, sir..." Trembling, the gargoyle watched the young man walk into the stairwell, before closing the route behind him. The young man smirked slightly as he ascended the stairs briskly, opening the door at the top and entering the bare, empty office. He closed the door behind him with a thud, and surveyed the room.

Behind the desk were a series of portraits - these, he'd expected. The largest, most prominent was that of his predecessor who, like all the other previous headmasters present, was sleeping. The young man suppressed a smirk and pulled out his wand, summoning his trunk. It appeared noisily on the ground in front of him and he was once again glad that he hadn't needed to use accio any more. He flicked his wand again; the latches clicked and the lid swung open. He flicked his wand once more, lazily, and his things began to fly around the room, organising themselves. He was normally more sentimental about unpacking, taking his time with each and every last possession - he didn't have many - and putting them in just the right place for his new home. He valued his possessions. Eventually, there was only one thing left in the trunk. He walked over and picked it up.

It was a photograph of a younger version of himself in France, his arm around the shoulders of a smiling girl. He looked peaceful and happy, nothing like the gaunt, dark face he saw in the mirror these days. His eyes flicked to the mirror on his desk, noting the dark rings under his eyes, the lack of sleep. He felt almost like he would collapse, but he first sat down in his chair and placed the photo ever so delicately on the table-top, facing towards him. He ran his thumb across the cheek of the girl in the photograph and smiled, sadly.

Then Tom Riddle laid his head against his desk and, like the many headmasters behind him, fell into a deep, relaxed sleep.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

Phew! It has taken a while to write this, but it is good to know I am back in the writing game!

It has been far too long since I wrote fanfiction and, since I hate to leave a project unfinished, felt I ought to restart an old fic of mine from . I was rather disappointed with the previous attempt's outcome, so I hope that this is much improved.

This was, for me, the first time I have attempted to write anything vaguely erotic and as such I am very, very worried about the response. Don't worry - there won't be so much eroticism in the coming chapters. As far as I'm aware, there won't be any for a good length of time. I put it in here because I felt that I should portray the lives of the golden trio (and Ginny) as realistically as possible, and anyone who argues that Ron wouldn't have been sexually attracted to Hermione at this stage of Deathly Hallows is frankly either insane or asexual. I know this has painted Ron as a sex-driven idiot and, while I agree entirely with the "idiot," "sex-driven" is something he simply isn't. I have simply chosen to narrate him at a particular moment when this is what he is thinking about. That kind of thing is perfectly natural.

Another issue I have with this chapter is the necessary HarryxGinny. While I know this encounter isn't strictly canon, as the two aren't a couple at this point, there is no denying they still both have feelings for each other. We all know Ginny wanted something for Harry to remember her by, in case he came across some veela in his travels... Still, I do not ship HarryxGinny and never will, so I'm sure many of you will be glad to hear that this is the very last interaction of it's kind in the foreseeable future of this fic.

Anyway, thank you all for reading! This has taken me far too long and I can't wait to get started on Riddle's characterisation. He's going to be fun to write, I am sure...


	2. What's In A Name?

**Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or any of the related characters, settings and other such stuff.**

* * *

Sunlight streamed through stained glass windows. Great, tinted shadows of red and green, yellow and blue cast themselves across the large room, creating a warm glow of such varied hues to permeate the very atmosphere of the office. It seemed, all of a sudden in this phantasmagoria of morning tones, a very homely place. The small clutter of personal objects, scattered haphazardly around the room, the vast expanses of empty space between them casting an illusion more powerful than any magic and making the room seem all that much larger. As the sunlight began to hit these possessions, a small number of them would begin to move and turn and within a matter of minutes, as the rising sun cast the long shadows across the whole room, the office was alive with noise and motion, the sights and sounds of a working, living home.

For this room was home to the man who lay at his desk, his head pressed flat against the mahogany desk, his breathing deep and peaceful. It would be home for a little less than a year, if he what he suspected was true, and he had certainly thought before falling into his relaxed sleep that it would be a very good one. He had not yet seen the effect the morning light would have on his collection, nor how the hues of the house colours would gently saturate the air with warmth and a gentle sense of belonging. Still, he had known - known that his choice was right, known that this would be a very good place to stay indeed.

Some hours after the sun had begun to cast its friendly glow through the brightly coloured windows of his office, Tom Riddle began to stir.

He opened his bleary eyes and blinked away the feeling of exhaustion, pulling himself upright to a sitting position in his high-backed chair. He stretched, his back pressing against the comfortable velvet surface and he pushed gently, first with one shoulder-blade, then the other, finding the back cushion of the chair to be exceedingly comfortable. He shifted his posture, placing weight on each side of his pelvis in turn, before sitting back, closing his eyes, and sighing. He tilted his face up, resting the very top of his head against the back of the chair and smiled slightly. Then, suddenly, he stopped.

His eyes snapped open.

Something wasn't right.

He frowned for a moment, staring at the ceiling intently, before realisation dawned on him, a slowly approaching understanding that passed across his mind like the tinted shadows had his office. He snorted quietly and turned to look behind him, spinning on the chair.

"Hello Albus," he said curtly.

"Professor Riddle!" exclaimed the old man in the portrait behind him. It was a large portrait - much larger than any other in the room, although he couldn't see what the old man had done to deserve that - rimmed with ornate gold and painted in almost perfect likeness. The portrait's voice seemed pleased to see him. "I do like what you've done with the room."

"Done with it?" Riddle snapped. "I haven't done anything but walk in here. Who set up this stupid personalisation charm, anyway?" There was a quiet, subdued cough, probably from an older headmistress. Riddle's head snapped round to follow the source of the noise, only to note a small, inconspicuous portrait with a plain wooden frame, halfway across the room. "It's utterly ridiculous," he spat at her, temper rising. "Why would I want the four house crests..."

He was interrupted by a small cough behind him.

"Actually, Tom, most headmasters would have only one," came a snide comment. He recognised the portrait - Phineas Nigellus. His tutor had mentioned him. "It's set to pick up on the old house of the new head, and pick a colour scheme around that. With you, the charm has clearly confused itself."

"Clearly," Tom repeated icily. "Well, if you'll excuse me, I have a confused room to sort out."

He walked briskly to the room's centre and began to cast a series of transfigurations and charms. He began by covering the wall of portraits, despite their pleas of protest, with a thick, plain curtain. With a shudder he pulled the walls inwards, making the room smaller, less spacious. He got rid of the windows, replacing them with thick stone walls - and the room was plunged into darkness. Phineas Nigellus spoke up from behind the curtain.

"You know, some would consider creating a new light source before removing..."

Within moments, the office was covered with a glass ceiling, dome-shaped, surrounded by a ring of candles. Tom quickly cast a charm to conjure a lit chandelier only when it was dark, and to banish it as day broke. The result was a well-lit, small but comfortable office space, neither impressive nor exuberant, though he had made it octagonal out of a personal love of regularity. A quick charm conjured two doors on the angled walls behind his desk - one led to a door in the Library, connected magically; the other, to his bedroom. He put his wand back in his pocket after a quick flick to open the curtains. He let his predecessors (now situated on the three side walls of the office) see his handiwork, and let out a satisfied smirk and the looks of shock on many of their faces. He quickly checked the door to the Library - it worked, surprisingly, despite his work on spatial connection charms being in the very early stages of development - before turning to his bedroom. He needed a quick rest - transfiguring the room might not have been too difficult, but the door to the library and chandelier charms had really taken it out of him. He slammed the door behind him, ignoring Albus' call, and sat on his small, single bed. He sat and breathed, focusing his mind on the feeling of air flowing in and out of his throat, meditating to slowly recover his energy. He let himself relax and fell backwards, glad that the bed was both soft and warm.

A few minutes later he sat up, worst of the magical exhaustion dealt with, and he turned to his desk. There was already a small pile of books sitting at the side and he sighed as he recognised the task before him. He only had a few more weeks until term started and he had yet to find any of the things he had needed; he sincerely hoped the Hogwarts library would serve him better. Closing his eyes briefly, he pulled himself off the bed and wandered over to the desk, dropping onto the stall that stood next to it and pulling the first book and a roll of parchment over to him. He picked up his quill, dipping it in ink, and began to make notes as he flicked slowly through the heavy, ancient, dust-filled tome. It crossed his mind, once or twice, that it had been years since anyone had read this particular volume, but he brushed the thought aside impatiently. It was, after all, no surprised that anyone would avoid a book of such dark magic and, besides, the author's style was overly dull. He wouldn't have cared if the book were by Merlin himself, the choice of words was archaic and the detailing nothing short of non-existent.

It took him an hour or so to find the information he had been looking for, with a further mind-numbingly dull hour of copying charts and diagrams, lists and instructions. He was, eventually, done; he set down his quill and flipped the book closed with a satisfying thud. His eyes flicked to the cover. Oh. It _was_ written by Merlin. Figures.

He allowed himself a moment to stretch, before pulling the ancient book on early magical theory towards him, as well as a pile of his own papers from previous note-taking exercises. He sat and compared his notes, making corrections and furiously slashing lines through work he deemed incorrect, cross-referencing everything against the magical theory every once in a while when his own impressive knowledge of the subject was not enough.

_'Add one pinch of powdered mandrake root_,' he scribbled above one set of potions ingredients, before drawing five extra runes in an already complicated pentacle diagram. As he finished the last stroke of a rune off with a satisfying flick, he heard his door creak open slightly. Within moments, his wand was in his hand, his desk charmed to look as if he had been reading a simple novel, or doing paperwork, or whatever the viewer thought was most appropriate. He turned to face the door, only to find his intruder was nothing more than a house elf, laden with brightly coloured clothing and carrying a tray of warm drinks and food.

"Dobby thought Mister Riddle sir would like something to eat and drink," squeaked the elf, looking hopefully up at Riddle with his large, pleading eyes. Riddle sighed.

"Thank you... Dobby, was it?" he inquired of the eccentrically-dressed elf.

"Yessir," the elf replied, his high pitch squeal of a voice suddenly also very fast, too. Riddle smiled; it seemed even the elves were frightened of him, and he had done nothing to them yet. Word must travel quickly. The elf shuffled closer to him and handed him the tray, before bowing slightly and scurrying out of the room as fast as his little legs could carry him. Tom grinned - his reputation could be very, very amusing at times.

He stood up himself, walking out to his main office and setting the tray down on his desk. He could afford to take a short break, he decided, and anyway, it wasn't as if he hadn't got much time. Indeed, he had until the first of September, which was... He consulted his calendar. A little less than a month. No hurry at all.

The tray itself contained a great many interesting items from the kitchens. Aside from the strong pot of black coffee and the small teapot, there were three small bowls of various soups, a selection of bread, a platter of sliced cheese and meats, a banana and, to top it all off, a pork pie. Nobody could ever say that Tom Riddle was extravagant and he was often very pleased to remark that a small, deceptively plain meal like this would always be better than any hog roast or steak. It was, perhaps, an overstatement, but Riddle honestly believed that there was no meal better than a simple soup, bread, cheese and cold meat lunch.

What surprised him was that the house elves knew his preferences without him ever telling them. He had never really made a study of the small creatures - though the girl in the photo before him would urge him strongly to understand their magic - and so was not sure if such powers were natural to them. What he did know was that house elves _never_ wore clothes - certainly not a large collection of multi-coloured socks. He mulled over the thought in his head, but could not come to any conclusion other than Dobby having been freed at some point; he reminded himself that he should ask the little elf about this at some point. In the meantime, he was more than happy to sit in his office and enjoy the meal in front of him, savouring each mouthful, glad to take a break from his notes, however short that break may be. As he slowly sipped on a spoonful of firecrab soup (a rare, exceedingly spicy dish that he would have to instruct the house elves not to cook again, whether for the whole student body or simply for himself) an idea came to him. He swallowed a mouthful of the blistering hot liquid, enjoying the explosive taste as it poured down his throat, before chewing thoughtfully on the soft cube of meat that remained. As he chewed, scalding juice squeezed out from the meat itself, sending an involuntary shiver down his spine.

The firecrab meat was so overwhelmingly full of taste and spice that, for a moment, he almost forgot what he was going to say next.

"Albus?" he asked eventually, when the spicy taste had been drowned from his tongue with a mouthful of coffee.

"Yes, Tom?" replied the old man happily, glad that Tom no longer seemed angry with him. Tom still refused to turn around and face him.

"How much does Harry know about Horcruxes?"

* * *

Ginny had shut herself up in her room. She wasn't locked in - her door was always slightly ajar and she showed no signs of stopping her family if they walked in. On the first day, she didn't react, barely responding if she was brought food and water, not responding at all to any kind of human touch or spoken word. Everyone was certain that she was scared or worried, and the family came to the natural conclusion that she was in shock after the attack. It was some time before anyone realised that it was not herself, or her family's safety, that had her so worried. Eventually, they realised that the shock of Harry leaving had taken its toll.

It was Bill who first realised. He remembered knocking on her door during their second day, and pushing it open with one arm when there had been no response. In his other arm, he carried a tray of cold lunch and soup that Molly had made; while Ginny refused to leave her room, Molly and Muriel insisted that she would still be well-fed. Her brothers took turns carrying trays of food in and making sure she ate as much as she could, trying to get her to talk.

Bill stepped in quietly and shut the door behind him, looking over at his younger sister who sat on the end of her bed, her head in her arms.

"Hey Ginny," he said softly. His sister nodded in recognition. His lips twitched slightly in a smile and he moved to sit next to her, leaving the tray on a bedside table. Wrapping one arm around her shoulders, he leaned down to her level. "Are you ok?"

"Mmm," she replied, her tone suggesting an affirmative. Bill sighed.

"Really, Ginny? Mum's been worried sick."

"Isntmeshnedbewrdfr," Ginny mumbled. Bill sat confused for a moment, his curse-breaking skills not quite enough to aid in translating teenage mutters. He hummed questioningly, trying to provoke a response. It didn't work.

"Pardon?" he asked eventually.

"It isn't me she needs to be worried for," Ginny said, softly and quickly. Bill quickly understood.

"You're worried about Harry, aren't you?" he asked, not really needing an answer. She nodded, biting her lip. Bill pulled his younger sister into a hug, tight and comforting. After a minute or two, he pulled her back up to a sitting position, and pulled over the tray, trying to get Ginny to eat. "Here, Ginny, have you ever tried firecrab soup..."

* * *

By the third day, Ginny was speaking to people who came to visit properly, exchanging questions and answers and having civilised conversations. She did not seem quite herself, though, as if all the energy behind her personality had suddenly vanished and a usually powerful, intense person had become very meek and quiet. It was her emotional response, or lack thereof, that made her seem quite so disinterested in the world around her. She simply stopped showing signs of emotion, choosing instead to hide behind a mask of indifference, her features blank and her eyes lifeless. She showed no sign of enjoying the food she was given, or of feeling sad when Molly tripped and fell. Ginny simply remained utterly devoid of any kind of emotion and while her mother could see only the improvement in her daughter - the conversation, the movement, the life - there was very definitely a darker side to Ginny's behaviour, a side that was slowly driving the rest of the family sick with worry.

Bill sighed to himself as he climbed the stairs to go to bed late in the night on the third day. This war, these death eaters, had denied him his honeymoon, something he tried not to be bitter about. He knew that Fleur was trying, too, but she didn't have a younger sister who had gone into some kind of depression to keep her mind occupied. He knew that she was beginning to get upset that her honeymoon had been taken from her and did everything he could to make it up to her. Still, she was not impressed enough.

"When I was leetle," she said softly as Bill walked to his side of the bed and slowly, sleepily, began to change, "'I 'ad always wanted to visit Italy for ma 'oneymoon. Eet seemed like such an ideal place."

Bill picked up the edges of the covers and slid underneath, scooting over to wrap one arm around her shoulders. She didn't turn - he didn't expect her to - but lay as she was, reading a French book intently. He kissed her softly on the cheek.

"Why Italy?" he asked, in a hushed whisper.

"Because eet always sounded so exotic," she replied after a long pause of quiet. It was a nice kind of quiet, the kind of quiet you get when you can hear the person you love's breathing and the quiet, gentle beating of their heart, and the air seems almost filled with their warmth and their love. "Eet 'ad 'istory and beauty. Eet seemed nicer than France, or England."

Bill pulled himself onto his side, wrapping his other arm around her waist and lying next to her, his eyes not leaving her face for a moment. Even now, even after all this time, she was so wonderfully perfect - and she loved him! He couldn't help but be overwhelmed around her, his thoughts chaotic yet calm, his whole being so confused that someone so wonderful could love him, even with his scars and his wolf-like nature. He blinked, dragging his mind out of the confusion and back to the conversation at hand.

"It does seem like the right place," he agreed, rubbing her side with his fingertips. She didn't move, continuing to stare at her book in concentration, paying him only the slightest bit of attention. "Perhaps we could go there after all this is over?"

Only then did she turn on her side to face him, her book thrown haphazardly off the bed. She took his face in her hands and kissed him, her lips soft and warm against his, her tongue softly - so, so softly - pressing against his mouth, searching. He opened his lips slightly, their breath warm and fast and heavy, her tongue now exploring his mouth and his toying with it.

After a moment, they broke apart, each slightly out of breath with and giggling, softly and childishly, into the night.

"I do not really care where ma 'ooneymoon eez," she whispered eventually, pulling herself closer to him and tracing a spiral pattern on his chest with ther finger. "Eet does not mattair, as long as I 'ave you."

Bill grinned, the absurdity and confusion of the situation overwhelming him once more. He wrapped his arms tightly around her.

"I would even," she carried on, her voice lower than a whisper - and _M__erlin_, was she seductive when she did that! - "consider 'aving one 'ere."

* * *

Fred and George were very worried about Ginny, come the fifth day at Muriel's. Nobody had stepped outside the house since the wedding, knowing they were being watched and nowhere outside was safe, and they felt the stress of being cooped up inside was not helping Ginny's clear upset and nervous state. They weren't entirely sure what they could do about it, though, until help arrived in the form of an owl.

Ginny's sixth-year book list.

The Twins' idea was simple. If they could safely get the family to their shop in Diagon Alley, they could take Ginny out shopping for her school equipment whilst at the same time hopefully getting her some fresh air and cheering her up, taking her mind off this self-enforced confinement. They also hoped that they could use the opportunity to find out what was going on in the wider world - the WWN was not being particularly helpful, being heavily influenced by the Voldemort-controlled ministry.

The trip would serve to release not only Ginny's tension, but everyone else's as well. Nobody liked being cooped up in such a confined space, everyone sharing rooms (aside from Ginny, whose shaky emotional state in the first few days had earned her a room of her own, the twins and Charlie giving theirs up and sleeping on the sofas so that nobody else was disturbed) in a house that was far too small to accommodate such a large family comfortably. Molly had begun to snap at even the tiniest of things; Arthur, too, seemed pale and frightened a lot of the time, wondering what he would do once he returned to work now that his boss was, technically, Voldemort. Bill and Fleur seemed stressed - and rightly so, having missed out on their honeymoon. Indeed, the only person who seemed unaffected was Muriel, who seemed rather pleased to have so much company and excited that something interesting was happening, despite the desperate sadness of the situation. The Twins were certain that everyone would benefit from a trip to Diagon Alley and, since it needed to be done at some point, why not go sooner than later?

"Absolutely _not_," Molly Weasley said in a stern voice, turning back to the stew she was seasoning - even when she was technically a guest in someone else's house, nobody dared to cross Molly in the kitchen and tell her to let someone else cook.

"But mum, you have to admit..." started George.

"... everyone needs to get out," finished Fred. Molly eyed them suspiciously. She opened her mouth to respond, but George cut in.

"It would be great for Ginny. I think it would really help her."

The next day, once they had sorted out a viable, safe way of getting to Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes - Floo was out of the question as it would undoubtedly be watched and apparition was impossible with the new wards they had set up on Muriel's, so they settled for a portkey - the Weasley family stood in a small group in the very back room of the shop, surrounded by busy shop assistants and loud, explosive experiments. The atmosphere was crowed and chaotic, and the group all but ran for the door. They emerged from the back room into the main shop itself, an aura of calm falling onto them, as if they had stepped into paradise. Yes, the shop was noisy and crowed - rows upon rows of joke items and merchandise, most of it loudly advertising itself to the customers, and huge, colourful displays were surrounded by a bustling crowd of people, thick filling the air with their noise. But the noise here was less intrusive than the explosions and cracks of the research team, who by all means were making the quieter noise. Here, everyone was laughing, chatting, giggling and smiling. It was a very happy place, even in wartime, and the happiness was infectious.

Most of the family said their goodbyes to Fred and George, who stayed to catch up with their shop's takings and walk Muriel around the shop, as she seemed absolutely delighted with the work they'd done. They weren't sure if it was the days of confinement or the shop, but something had brought out Muriel's childish side in the last few days.

* * *

It was not, by any stretch of the imagination, Hester's best day. While she loved working in Flourish and Blotts, adored the vast expanse of high shelves stacked full with books on every subject known to wizarding Britain, the dusty, warm rooms feeling so homely and comforting - there was something that bothered her about working on inquiries. Hester had never been a "people person," often choosing the company of books and - dare she say it? - even muggle novels over her wizarding friends. So while she loved working in a bookshop, serving the customers was by far the least favourite part of her job.

At least today the customer she was serving seemed as much of a social recluse as her. He had large, dark rings under his eyes, that would have been concealed by a powerful glamour if Flourish and Blotts hadn't stepped up its security in the last days before the ministry fell and provided all staff with anti-glamour charmed glasses. His posture, though at first glance normal, was far from the impeccable standard his thick, rich, perfectly enunciated voice would imply. He slouched ever so slightly forwards, as if used to hunching over a desk. His right hand was curled, while his left was straight - she guessed he must write a lot.

"I need a copy of Ravenclaw's _Bealucræftas Deorce, _as soon as possible."

It was the strangest request she'd ever heard in the shop. The book dated back to... well, Ravenclaw and was written in a variant of Gaelic that very few people could still understand. Furthermore, it was one of the most detailed studies of dark magic that had ever been produced - why anyone would want to get a copy in times like these was anyone's guess. Still, she had dutifully checked their stocks and, out in the farthest reaches of the least-lit, poorest kept parts of the shop, found the one copy that had been ordered in so long ago nobody could remember why. She told the strange man that it would cost a great deal of money. In response, he merely placed a large bag on her desk, the resounding clunk informing her that the contents were more than enough to cover whatever costs the book would need. She gulped, stunned at his callous disregard for wealth, before reminding herself that at least he was not flaunting it, like some customers loved to. She loathed those customers, the ancient families like the Malfoys and the Lestranges. No, she definitely preferred this man's attitude to wealth.

Just behind him, the door opened. A bell tinkled somewhere in the shop and a crowd of people walked in. They were all redheads, excluding one blonde girl; Hester smiled, recognising them as the Weasleys. These were the kind of customers she could identify with, having never had any wealth of her own.

"We'll just need your name, for insurance purposes," Hester said to the young man standing before her.

"Tom Riddle," he replied smoothly.

It was at about this moment that Ginny Weasley showed the first emotion she had shown in days.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

This chapter has been a little more difficult to write. Throwing out the golden trio from narrating viewpoints has made me all that more aware of how much more difficult minor characters are to write. Hopefully I'm getting better as I go along and the next few chapters won't take quite so long to write!

In case you hadn't twigged on by now, this fanfic is not going to follow the golden trio themselves very much at all, focusing instead on Ginny, Neville and Luna (the silver trio?) and what they do at Hogwarts during Deathly Hallows. Of course, I've deviated heavily from canon with a whole new headmaster, so it will be no surprise that the year portrayed here will be very different to the one Neville talks about during the end of DH. The changes are probably all for the better.

Thanks so much for reading, and sorry for the delay in release! I hope the next few chapters will be up more often, as the summer holidays have finally started.

Edit: The book name "_Bealucræftas Deorce" _means "The Dark Witch-Crafts in Old English...


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